


Disjoint

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hitman!John, Post Reichenbach, dark!john
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-04-09
Updated: 2012-04-29
Packaged: 2017-11-03 09:07:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/379681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock Holmes came back from the dead, he was prepared for a lot of things.</p><p>He wasn't prepared for this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

When Sherlock Holmes returned to 221B, he was prepared for a lot of things. He was prepared for John to hit him —he deserved that, but he knew it would hurt. He was prepared for the inevitable breakdown and screaming from John’s end —he wasn’t good at comforting, but he’d  _try_. He was also prepared to explain himself, —he knew it would be tedious, but he’d be patient for John’s sake.

 

So when he opened the door to find John Watson —friend, flatmate, army doctor, smoking and polishing a L115A3 sniper rifle, he wasn’t too sure what to think. What was John doing? He deplored the idea of smoking. And that sniper was new but well used. When had John acquired such powerful firearms? And for what reason?

 

His eyes widened when the barrel was pointed in his direction.

 

“J-John…?”

 

The gun didn’t lower, that cold gaze didn’t waver.

 

Sherlock swallowed thickly. “John, it’s me.”

 

“I’m aware.”

 

No, no, that voice sounded all wrong! John was meant to sound shocked, angry, sad —he wasn’t meant to sound so monotone. Re-gathering his bearings, Sherlock took a deep breath and straightened himself. “If you’re going to kill me, do it fast.” It was a bluff, because John would never do such a thing, right?

 

John lifted the rifle, rested it against his shoulder and placed his finger on the trigger.

 

Alright, maybe he needed to re-think that. Oh God, what had these past three years done to John?

 

It seemed like eons before John finally lowered the rifle.

 

“I’m not wasting my ammo on you,” John murmured. Sherlock could only watch as John began to dismantle the rifle with deft hands and practiced ease. Each piece was carefully placed into the duffle bag beside him, ready to be used at a moment’s notice. As the army doctor continued about his business in efficient silence, Sherlock felt as if he was being suffocated.

 

“Aren’t you curious…? As to how I did it?” Sherlock hated how frightfully small he sounded.

 

“No.”

 

“How about why? Don’t you care about that?” Didn’t John care about  _him_?

 

“Not really.” The zipper was fastened and the fag was ground into the ashtray beside him. John’s gaze remained flat as he grabbed his coat and hefted the bag onto his shoulder. “I don't have time for this.”

 

It was only when John brushed past him did Sherlock’s brain come back online. “Where are you going?”

 

There was a familiar look of confusion on John’s face though it was muted; not nearly as expressive as it used to be. “I thought it’d be obvious.”

 

“No, what’s obvious is what you’re going to do,” Sherlock replied, feeling his patience growing thin. Nothing was going according to plan! And damn it, he felt so helpless… No. Don’t dwell on such useless sentimental thoughts. He needed to tackle this problem head on.

 

Reaching out, he took John by the shoulders and spun him round, staring directly into his eyes. Somewhere,  _somewhere_ , the old John Watson had to be in there somewhere! He saw nothing, he saw the gaze of a man who had given up hope. “Money… you’re doing this for money? Why? You never take lives unless it’s for a worthy cause. You’re not the kind to be enslaved something as simple as monetary gain, you find it immoral.”

 

John’s lips quirked into a smile. It was twisted and wrong. “Morals are boring.”

 

Sherlock pushed back the feeling of dread that had been threatening to rise up his throat. “What happened to you?”

 

John’s eyes narrowed, the accusation was clear. “Let go. I have a job to do.”

 

Sherlock’s grip tightened. “No.”

 

And for a moment, the old John returned. Sherlock could see it as his eyebrows scrunched up and his lip curled. The expression of outrage was so familiar to him and for those scant seconds, Sherlock felt hope. Sure, rage wasn’t an ideal emotion to be dealing with but at least it was  _something._

 

Almost as if John had read his mind, the look was gone. Instead, it was replaced with a blank slate. Sherlock’s hands were slapped from his shoulders and John turned. “I’ll be back later,” he declared.

 

Feeling quite foolish with his hands still mid air, Sherlock slowly lowered them to his sides. What could he say to make this all better? What could he do to reset time? “I’ll be here,” he murmured. There was nothing else he  _could_  say.

 

John stilled at the base of the stairs. With his gaze firmly on the ground, his response cut Sherlock to the bone.

 

“No, you won’t.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll make the point now, that I have no idea where I'm going with this. I just want to write BAMF John and pining Sherlock, so here it is. Otherwise, enjoy = u = ;;

After John’s departure, Sherlock had waited all night for him to come back. Pacing back and forth the living room at first but soon opting for the chair when he had lost the feeling in his legs; three hours later. He had texted him several times, though with each lack of response, he was forced to accept that the man had turned off his phone. His sub-sequential phone call —rebuffed, had only been proof. It was drawing close to the nine hour mark when Sherlock had finally gotten up, determined to track down his best friend.

 

Only to have said friend walk through the door. Saying nothing, he merely glanced over at Sherlock as if taking in his existence before dropping his bag to the floor and leaving for his room.

 

No ‘hello’, no ‘sorry it took so long’, nothing.

 

Sherlock was left standing alone in the middle of the living room. Deciding that it was best not to disturb John, he made for his old room and fell into a light, fretful sleep.

 

~*~

 

It had been a week since Sherlock had returned to 221B. Of course, he informed people that he was back from the ‘dead’ and most, if not all, took it rather well. Sure, Lestrade had punched him, Mrs. Hudson had fainted and most of New Scotland Yard stared at him as if he were some type of ghost that needed exorcising. But all in all, it was rather predictable.

 

What wasn’t predictable, however, was his flatmate.

 

He had found that if he hadn’t been the one to start a conversation, John would’ve all too happily sat in silence. Or rather, that happened when John was actually _in_ the flat. More often than not, he would be away; returning at sporadic hours to grab some food, clean up a few wounds before he was out again.

 

If Sherlock hadn’t been so consumed with thoughts of regaining John’s trust, he would’ve been in a fit of ennui by now. The Yard was being reluctant with cases, with Lestrade having been demoted and the Chief Superintendent still holding an irrational grudge against him; Sherlock was left trapped in his flat. No matter, all the more time to solve this puzzle. In his three year absence, John had broken, leaving an empty husk of a man in its place. Sherlock knew he was the cause and therefore, it was only natural that he was the one to fix it.

 

Now if only John was in the bloody flat.

 

No sooner had the thought entered his mind, had John come through the door, covered in dirt and bleeding rather profusely from his right arm. There had been a makeshift bandage around his upper arm, a piece of fabric torn from the bottom of his shirt. Sherlock could see the blood seeping through.

 

He forced the feeling of panic away and guided John to his chair, ignoring the glare when he did. His steps were quick as he left for the bathroom, shortly returning with a first aid kit in his hands. Without a word, he sat beside his flatmate and began prying away the bandage. He grimaced, the fabric was giving trouble. Since it been held down by dried blood pulling it away he had reopened the wound.

 

“A small handheld blade. A switchblade. Your opponent was quick, agile and you were caught off guard,” Sherlock murmured as he rolled up the sleeve and began to clean the wound. The cut was deep, but not enough to require stitches; thank God. “There was only one, otherwise you would’ve sustained far worse than you have. A scout, perhaps? Yes, a scout. Young, light, otherwise this cut would be much deeper.”

 

John said nothing, but Sherlock was thankful that he hadn’t pulled away. At least that was a small victory; had this been last week, he was sure that John would’ve recoiled at the slightest touch. His mind flashed back to the moment in which John slapped his hands away. How dark those eyes had been, how cold his voice... The stab of pain that followed after made Sherlock falter briefly. No, think of something else.

 

“You were unspotted, otherwise you wouldn’t have returned. So the person —man, definitely a man, he must be bleeding out somewhere. Did I get anything wrong?” Sherlock asked, albeit a bit too hopefully. He wanted John to tell him that he was brilliant, he wanted John to praise him, to acknowledge him. He wanted John to do _something_ instead of staring at him with those dull eyes of his.

 

“You’ve been cleaning that cut for the past five minutes,” John said instead, his voice rather hoarse but flat as ever. “Either bandage it or I’ll do it myself.”

 

Sherlock did his best to suppress his flinch. So, no acknowledgement at all? Biting back the feeling of hurt and disappointment, Sherlock did as suggested. He wasn’t deterred. If he had singlehandedly taken down an international crime syndicate, he could fix his friend. He _had_ to fix his friend.

 

“I did it for you, Moriarty had threatened you,” Sherlock murmured, wrapping the gauze around the cut as he did. He supposed that it was rather belated, to mention all this now. He should’ve said this sooner, almost immediately after he came back. Why hadn’t he? Oh right, because John was never at home.

 

“I know.”

 

Sherlock’s hands fumbled and he dropped the metal clip. “You what?”

 

John shifted his gaze, making direct eye contact. Opening his mouth, he repeated himself. “I knew. Six months after you jumped.” His fingers were steady when he plucked the metal clip from between the cushions and passed it to Sherlock.

 

So when John had told him that he didn’t care, it was because he already knew? He dumbly took the clip, his hands working on autopilot as he finished dressing the wound. This didn’t make any sense! If John knew that he had faked his death, then there was no logical reason for the way that he was acting! If he had been left in the dark, then Sherlock could pin it down to sentimental feelings; betrayal and all that lot. But no, John knew, John had known for two and half years. He had time to accept the information, accept that Sherlock knew best and trust his decision unconditionally like he always had.

 

But instead of all this, John went the other way. John had become cold and dead, his very being void of life. If he had expressed more emotion, Sherlock would’ve called him ‘bitter’. He wasn’t even that.

 

When the bandage was secured, John stood and began to disarm himself; a series of knives, two handguns, several magazines and a whole collection of other tools of the trade were laid onto the table. Sherlock could only watch in awe as he pulled out item after item from every pocket, sleeve and fabric fold possible. How was John even able to run with so much on his person?

 

What happened next was a rare moment in which Sherlock’s mouth acted before his brain. “Let’s head out to dinner.”

 

John merely stared for a full minute before responding. “Pass. I have plans.”

 

Hurt that he had been rejected so coldly, Sherlock’s brow furrowed. “Then cancel them,” he snapped. What happened to the John Watson that would drop everything at a moment’s notice for him? The one that would blindly follow without question?

 

With John’s wry smile, Sherlock was reminded that his John Watson no longer existed.

 

“Somehow, I don’t think that’s possible. Your brother wouldn’t be too pleased.”

 

Mycroft? What did Mycroft have to do with any of this? Sure, his brother had known of his faked death —how else would he have that much freedom and power while hiding? But other than that, Mycroft had no other connect—

 

And then, it clicked.

 

“You’re working for my brother,” Sherlock said flatly; accusing, almost.

 

A slow blink. “Wrong.”

 

“Then why else mention him?”

 

John sighed and sank down into his chair, thankfully, making no move to leave. “Mycroft is the one who introduced me to my clients,” he clarified.

 

No wonder John hadn’t been arrested for manslaughter, the man was protected by the fucking Government. A secret assassin for hire, passed around the high ranking officials like some kind of toy. Why did the thought disgust him so? The idea of John being manipulated by some unknown force, it left a bitter taste in Sherlock’s mouth. His fists clenched and he inhaled sharply, biting back the scathing remark on the tip of his tongue.

 

Different route, different route, Sherlock thought to himself. He needed an approach that would bring the old John back to him. He hated this John, he hated that he had done this to him. “Why didn’t you leave? After...” he trailed off. John was smart enough to figure it out.

 

John’s jaw tightened and his eyes narrowed. “I don’t think that’s any of your business.”

 

Damn it! Wrong approach, wrong! Why was it so hard to read John now? Oh, it used to be so easy. He wore his heart on his sleeve, though not any more, it seemed. Sherlock knew that he would have to fight to regain John’s trust, but never did he imagine that it’d be this difficult! Another route, then. He was persistent and stubborn, he refused to give up on the man he had failed. Sherlock had as many chances as John would allow and judging by the glare, not many at all.

 

“When’s your next job?” Sherlock despised sounding so uncertain.

 

“Can’t you deduce it?”

 

John shifted, pulling out a carton of cigarettes from his pocket; half empty, when it had been three-quarters full before. John was a highly trained professional, otherwise he’d be dead; he’d never smoke on the job. So he’d do it after or before, maybe both, Sherlock reasoned. Five (including the one being lighted now) have been smoked, so he’d taken two to four jobs in the past three days.

 

No, arbitrary, that was useless data. His thought processes slowed as he revaluated his initial findings. Was it really ‘useless’ if it involved John? He had found that he had been scrabbling for any information he could possibly get, even something as random as John’s smoking habits were a Godsend. As long as it could shed some light on this familiar stranger that sat before him.

 

“Soon, in the next hour or so, otherwise you wouldn’t be smoking,” Sherlock eventually replied. “You smoke before jobs, the tar is a relaxant and calms you. It has become a habit, a daily ritual similar to your cup of tea in the mornings.”

 

A long stream of smoke was expelled from John’s lips. “Then why bother asking when you already know?”

 

Because I want to hear you talk to me, Sherlock thought.

 

“And you’re wrong. It’s not till early evening,” John corrected flatly. “I smoke after jobs too.”

 

Wrong again? To be wrong so many times was highly disconcerting. “So lunch then,” Sherlock tried again, his voice a little too high, his words a little too fast, his desperation was far too clear. Seeing the shift in John’s body language and predicting the answer before it was even voiced, Sherlock was quick to cut him off. “I’ll pay,” he said, as if something so trivial would affect John’s decision.

 

Seconds ticked past and melded into minutes.

 

Sherlock was close to begging at John’s lack of response. Oh good God, what had he been reduced to? This was pathetic. No, it wasn’t pathetic. This was karma. He deserved this. Blaming himself made reality a little easier to handle.

 

John sighed. “Where do you want to go?”

 

Disbelief left Sherlock speechless. No, no, focus! Don’t irritate John further! “Twenty minute walk from here. Grab your coat,” he said, doing his best to sound like his old confident self when in reality, he was anything but. There was a small window of opportunity here and he didn’t intend to blow it.

 

John snubbed out the cigarette and stood. “Let me get changed,” he paused and took in his state. Covered from head to toe in dirt, dust, dried blood flecked across spots of his clothing and his face. “...And a shower too.”

 

Too drunk with joy, Sherlock simply nodded. He remained in the chair, a bundle of nervous energy as John went about his shower. He felt like a freaking teenager on their first date, or whatever trite analogy one came up with in situations like these. In order to get John to open up again, he needed to be accommodating, charming and appealing. While he had no problem acting this way to strangers, this was different. This was John and his old tactics wouldn’t work on him. Not only had John known every one of his tricks, he had also changed drastically. Sherlock admitted, with some reluctance, that he hardly knew the man at all. The only thing that was certain was that John could potentially break him; both physically and mentally.

 

Had he always been so dangerous?

 

Sherlock wasn’t sure why that question sent a tremor of excitement through him. This was a new puzzle, a new challenge and one he could not — _would not_ fail. If he were to fail, then he’d lose John for goo— No. Don’t think about it. Failure wasn’t an option. It was just that simple.

 

Too lost in his inner monologue, he hadn’t noticed John coming out the shower. The man stood a fair distance away, now fully dressed and ready to go.

 

“If you’re in your mind palace, I’m leaving you there.”

 

That was more than enough to jolt Sherlock back into action. “Ah, you’re ready. Splendid. Let’s go,” he said as he jumped up from his seat.

 

John’s gaze shifted away, not looking at him as he nodded. For a moment, he paused, mulling over something before he crossed the room and swiped a handgun that had been on the table.

 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, a silent question.

 

John didn’t even acknowledge it. “Lead the way,” he said instead.

 

And Sherlock did.

 


	3. Chapter 3

If John was perfectly honest, which he really wasn’t these days, he’d rather jump off a moving train than have lunch with Sherlock Holmes. Watching the once cold and calculated man fidget in his seat, rattling off deductions about fellow diners in a poorly concealed attempt to impress was pitiful to watch. This was not the man he had revered and respected, he was an imitation. Sherlock would’ve never begged for his attention, he earned it in his own right; whether it was positive or negative attention was another matter. In the few moments where he _had_ asked for a second opinion, it was always to confirm or support his own; _this_ Sherlock was uncertain, second guessing himself at every turn.

 

It disgusted him.

 

“John?”

 

John lifted his gaze from the table to see Sherlock worrying at his lip. “Yes?” He asked slowly.

 

Sherlock faltered, opening his mouth to say something but deciding against it last moment. “Nothing,” he muttered, eying his untouched muffin in a very obvious manner.

 

Had Sherlock really believed that this would get a reaction from him? ‘Oh look, John! I’m eating! Aren’t I a good boy?’ John might’ve been touched had this been a few years back, but not now, not anymore. Sherlock was a grown man and was perfectly capable of looking after himself without being babied. If he didn’t want to eat the muffin, fine, it wasn’t necessary to point it out every few minutes. It was rather childish.

 

There were a few blissful minutes of quiet and John all too gratefully took the chance to retreat back into his head. He thought about the last few days in which Sherlock had returned. At first, the image of Sherlock appearing at the door hadn’t fazed him in the slightest; he had known for months that he’d return and that it was only a matter of time. It was unfortunate that Sherlock had returned when he was polishing his rifle. And he supposed that it was a cruel joke to lift the barrel in his direction but the reaction he got was worth it so he didn’t feel any remorse. Though to be fair, he hardly felt remorse these days.

 

In some ways, seeing Sherlock trying to make amends was cute, in a puppy with a cone around its head kind of way. As if a three year abandonment could be fixed with a couple of sorrys, ill-placed sandwiches and frankly, awful cups of tea, he thought with a mental scoff. If Sherlock truly believed that his trust could be bought back so easily, he was sorely mistaken.

 

John’s gaze averted to the figure behind a bush, notepad in hand and most likely a camera in their pocket. He let out a low grunt of frustration; another reason he didn’t want to be seen with Sherlock. Ever since he ‘came back from the dead’ every newspaper worth their print stalked him relentlessly, desperate to get the latest scoop and to unravel the mystery behind his great fall. They could pester Sherlock all the wanted but John didn’t need this kind of exposure, especially not with his line of work.

 

It was rather irritating that the stigma of ‘confirmed bachelor, John Watson’, clung to him like his cigarette smoke.

 

“Oh,” Sherlock said as he followed John’s line of vision. “Perhaps we should move to somewhere more private? Maybe inside?” he asked, tilting his head to the relatively empty restaurant behind him.

 

“Don’t bother.” From the corner of his eye, he saw Sherlock flinch. John ignored it and rose to his feet. “I need to report back to my client.” It was a lie, he just needed to get away. He doubted that Sherlock could tell, he was too lost in the past and much too desperate and blind to deduce him properly.

 

“S-stay,” Sherlock said much too quickly. “Please,” he added, quieter.

 

John’s eyes narrowed as he saw the reporter furiously scribble something down into... her? —Yes, a woman, her notepad. Tabloid then, he reasoned. He cared very little of what people thought of him nowadays, caring was not an advantage, after all. However, the last thing he needed was for his face to be slapped across every face of the media, being hounded by the press would be disastrous.

 

“I’ll ask Mycroft for a media blackout.”

 

Mycroft was stressed enough these days without having to pander to his whimsical brother’s demands, John thought. Though he supposed it hardly mattered, he held equal disdain for either Holmes’ so perhaps making the British Government suffer wasn’t such a bad idea.   

 

“John?”

 

He hated how Sherlock sounded so meek and uncertain. John forced himself to sit down, keeping his face blank.

 

“How long are you going to keep acting like this?” Sherlock asked. His brow furrowed and fists clenched tight in front of him. “Can you not see what you are doing to me? I am practically grovelling at your feet and you callously brush me off. I am _trying_ John.”

 

 _Sherlock_ was trying to guilt-trip him? Had John been in a more generous mood, he would’ve scoffed. Instead, his simply folded his arms and gave Sherlock a long, pointed stare. He remained quiet, daring the other to continue with his rant.

 

“What do you want me to _do_? Get on my knees and beg for your forgiveness?”

 

Wasn’t he already? John silently questioned. “You don’t seek approval from anyone. I don’t see why you want mine so badly.”

 

Sherlock looked as if he’d been slapped. Indignant fury began to spread across his face and through clenched teeth, he hissed. It took him a few seconds to calm himself, to unclench his fists and to stop himself from lashing out and causing a scene. “How can you possibly be so obtuse?” he seethed.

 

John blinked and fought back his smile. Ah, there was the old Sherlock, so the smarmy Consulting Detective was still in there, somewhere. Perhaps there was hope for him yet. John cocked his head, silently challenging, forcing the other to explain himself.

 

“You are but an ordinary man, plain and unassuming but hiding so much. You are an enigma, John Watson, and for some unfathomable reason, I crave your recognition and I value our friendship greatly. Even with this, do you still question my motives?”

 

Sherlock sounded so vehement, so genuine and emotional. His lithe frame shook, doing his best to maintain eye contact and to express his emotions where words had failed. As John stared into those glass-coloured eyes, he could tell that Sherlock was trying, trying so hard to express himself, to make John understand.

 

It was a shame that John didn’t believe him.

 

In fact, the last time he believed in Sherlock, the man had jumped off a roof and left him in a near-suicidal state for six months.

 

Sherlock drew back, hurt clear in his face when he slumped against the cheap, plastic chair. He lowered his head, shaking it once and then twice, unable to believe that his attempts at reasoning had failed. The man did his best to regain composure though it was clear that he was failing, if the little tremors were any form of indication. John simply watched as Sherlock fell to pieces in front of him; had this been three years ago, John would’ve tried so hard to comfort his friend in this time of weakness. To reach over and to pat him on the shoulder, to reassure him that it was perfectly fine to experience human emotions.

 

It was a shame that he wasn’t that John Watson anymore.

 

“You’re causing a scene,” John said instead. The reporter was gone now, no doubt this time tomorrow, there’d be a headline on the national tabloid. ‘Lovers Spat, Sherlock Holmes Heartbroken!’ or something equally as tasteless.

 

Sherlock’s head snapped up, his gaze alight with fury. Too enraged to form words, he settled to a glare that would instil fear in even the bravest soul.

 

John was, unsurprisingly, unaffected. Having lost his soul so long ago, fear was but a distant memory. Leaning back in his chair, he observed the man before him, contemplating on how he had changed both in appearance and mentality. Their time apart had changed them; for better or for worse, John wasn’t sure. He knew that if this had been in the past, he would’ve been happy at the sight of Sherlock showing emotion and simply being _human_. It was odd how it simply disgusted him now. How weak, how pathetically weak.

 

He looked away, pausing when he caught a glimmer in the distance.

 

“John? Sherlock? What are you doing out here?”

 

John reluctantly turned his head from the glimmer in the window to meet the newcomer. He offered them a warm smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Hey Greg, how you doing?” He felt Sherlock’s incredulous stare.

 

The once Detective Inspector smiled sheepishly, blind to John’s act. “Well, I’m getting by. Didn’t expect to run into you both though, thought you’d be hiding out at home to hide from the media circus.” To make his point, he scanned the area. “Surprised you ain’t getting hounded by em now, actually.”

 

“Perhaps they are simply biding their time,” Sherlock murmured.

 

John shrugged, letting his eyes wander. Damn, there it was! That blasted—

 

“I have to go,” John said, rising from his seat in an instant.

 

Lestrade and Sherlock blinked in unison.

 

John bit the inside of his mouth to prevent the curse that threatened to escape. Damn it, damn it all to Hell! The one time he gets targeted and he’s severely underprepared. He should’ve stayed at home, indulging Sherlock’s whim was a waste of time!

 

“Where are they?” It was a demand, not a question on Sherlock’s part.

 

“Where are who?” Lestrade’s head turned from Sherlock, to John and then back to Sherlock again, lost in the unspoken conversation between them.

 

John pushed himself away from the table. “Doesn’t matter,” he snapped. Fuck, they had an excellent vantage point too. What are they waiting for? Why hadn’t they— And then, it clicked. Of course, of fucking course.

 

Without another thought, John kicked at Sherlock’s chair, toppling him over so quickly that he landed with a heavy thud on his side. He then turned to Lestrade and yanked him down, so that the length of his body was concealed behind a hedge.

 

“John, what are you—” Lestrade began.

 

“Remain where you are,” Sherlock said, now out of his seat but keeping his body low. John could tell that he had injured his arm, —the observation was pointless, it didn’t affect him. Why had he thought of it then?

 

Sherlock stared at John for a while, trying to read him before opening his mouth. “Text me when it’s safe,” he eventually said.

 

The first shot was made, it missed.

 

From the smoking hole in the ground, the cacophony of panic and discord began. The once, peaceful Tuesday afternoon was now disrupted as people began to scream and run for shelter. And suddenly, the bright sunshine had become a hindrance, the glare of the light interfered with John’s vision but he was perfectly aware that the sniper had a clear shot of him. No, he couldn’t linger much longer, the more he hesitated, the more chances the assailant had to shoot or run.

 

John shook his head and bolted to the side, his feet pounding against the pavement as adrenaline flooded his senses. Oh, how he loved this, the danger of the battlefield, his nerves set alight with the thrill of the chase. It was the only time he ever felt alive, with nothing to slow him down, relying only his own skill and wit to ensure his survival.

 

Running alone in the battlefield that was London? He wouldn’t have it any other way.

 

~*~

 

Well that attempt at reconciliation had failed spectacularly, Sherlock thought as he flopped down into the sofa with a moue of disdain. He had received the text twenty minutes after the initial shot and though it was a petty little one-liner, —no, not even that, one _word_ , Sherlock was touched that John went through the trouble sending it.

 

_Safe._

 

Oh, look at him, reduced to feeding off mere scraps of affection. It was pathetic and yet, as he held the phone to his chest, he felt a small blossom of hope. Somewhere, John still cared, why else would he have kicked him down like that? His brain supplied him with countless reasons but most of them left him feeling cold and uneasy, he disregarded them. There was still hope, _his_ John was still in there, somewhere. He just needed to try harder. Appealing to him emotionally wouldn’t work, mere words were simply ineffective, in fact, they only served to offend John. So another approach could he take? What made John _react_?

 

It came to him in an explosion of clarity.

 

Oh, of course, of course! This John reacted to danger, thus his line of work. So, Sherlock would have to appeal to the adrenaline seeking side of him. Alright, that was something to work with, he needed dangerous situations. Crime solving wasn’t on the agenda until Scotland Yard agreed to it but that wouldn’t stop him from intruding; he did it before he was an official Consulting Detective, he could do it again. Now the problem was getting John to accompany him. Somehow, following after him on one of his jobs did not seem like a good way to convince him.

 

The sound of the front door opening snapped him out of his reverie.

 

“Oh, John dear, what happened now?” came the doting voice of Mrs. Hudson.

 

Interesting, was this a regular occurrence? Was that why she didn’t sound shocked? Sherlock couldn’t resist the inviting lure of new data. Pushing himself off the sofa, his bare feet made his steps silent as he cracked open the living room door, he crouched down low and peered through the gaps of the banister on top of the landing. His eyes were alight as he eagerly watched the exchange.

 

Mrs. Hudson appeared distraught, concerned as she fussed over the man before her. “John, what have you done?”

 

And to Sherlock’s surprise, John appeared _guilty._ “I’m sorry, I’ll try not to track blood onto the carpet,” he muttered, rubbing at his cheek to wipe away the blood that had settled there.

 

John was pushing most of his body weight on his left leg though it wasn’t the fault of his psychosomatic limp, not at all. Actual injury on his right leg, it seemed; judging from the dark patch on his thigh, he had been cut —shallow, nothing major but enough to cause discomfort. Right side was bruised but no broken ribs, fractured —the attacker had caught John off guard. Was quickly disposed of. The blood on his cheek was not his own, most likely from the splatter of the gunshot, the body was probably in a skip somewhere —no, John was a professional, he wouldn’t be so careless. The dirt stains on his shoes and trouser bottoms only confirmed it.

 

“Forget about the blood, come on, come in. We’ll get you all cleaned up and oh, that cut looks like it’ll smart. Will you be alright?”

 

It seemed as if Mrs. Hudson was used to seeing John this way. Curiouser and curiouser...

 

“I’ll be just fine, could I borrow your first aid kit? I need to clean up my leg,” he asked, limping past Mrs. Hudson and heading towards her living room.

 

Mrs. Hudson turned to follow. “Of course, of course. Should I call Sherlock down?”

 

Sherlock felt his breath catch, his heart rate speeding up as he waited for John’s answer.

 

“Mrs. Hudson, I think we both know the answer to that question,” John replied tiredly.

 

Sherlock’s heart fell to his stomach. The feeling of hope that had been so strong before was now quashed. John was out of sight, but Mrs. Hudson’s expression was as clear as day. Concern was the prevalent expression but there was something that he couldn’t quite identify thrown into the mix. Disappointment? Relief? Or perhaps both? If she was relieved, why? Why was she relieved that John didn’t want to talk to him?

 

“I’ll go get you that kit. Should I fetch you a cuppa too?”

 

John’s voice was warm, soft and —this was what hurt Sherlock most, genuine. “That would be lovely. Thank you.”

 

Sherlock’s teeth clenched as he thought of all the untouched cups of tea he had made for John, the tea that had been poured down the drain without a second thought. Oh God, he was pathetic. He was jealous of Mrs. Hudson. Instead of filling up with shame at the observation, it only served to fuel his rage further.

 

“Just this once,” she chided, though her heart wasn’t in it. Her voice grew quieter as she walked down the hall and into her bathroom. “John, this really must stop...”

 

And that was all he heard before the door clicked shut.

 

Sherlock drew up to his full height and propelled himself into the living room, slamming the door and picking up the closest thing he could grab —John’s mug, and threw it against the wall. The sound of ceramic smashing didn’t register to his ears, the splatters of coffee dribbling down the mismatched wallpaper was unimportant. Rage, hurt, betrayal, all these feelings and more swirled within Sherlock like a vortex out of control. This wasn’t fair! This wasn’t fair! It wasn’t meant to be like this, _John_ wasn’t meant to be like this!

 

He let out an enraged snarl as he fisted his hair into his hands. This was insane! Illogical, irrational, completely and utterly ludicrous! Who was this vile man that wore John’s face? What happened to the home he desperately wished to come back to? When did the universe decide to turn upside down and completely screw him over?

 

Sometime after you jumped off a building, his mind cruelly answered.

 

Sherlock inhaled deep, ready to unleash another frustrated scream when the sound of his phone stopped him. Thrusting his hand into his pocket, he reluctantly checked the message.

 

_We need to talk. MH_


	4. Chapter 4

Soon after receiving the text, Sherlock was not surprised to see the familiar black sedan parked outside his home. Upon seeing it, he had immediately stormed out of the flat, not before making sure to slam the door particularly loudly. After a half hour drive, —during which Sherlock had spent impatiently shifting in his seat, he was deposited in front of the Diogenes club. He wasted no time storming through the establishment of pompous politicians; having been here enough times, he knew that Mycroft was lingering somewhere in the back —a private room of course, talking would’ve been difficult otherwise.

 

There were no trivial greetings, Sherlock threw himself into the seat in front of Mycroft and waited for the other to speak.

 

“Sherlock, this really must stop.”

 

Sherlock irritably looked up from the ground, directing the force of his glare onto the man before him; pompous and overbearing as he reclined in that overly plush velvet chair of his.

 

The embers of the fire in the hearth crackled and snapped, though the warm glow of the flames should’ve been calm and welcoming, to Sherlock, it only served to mock him. Everything in the room was in place, perfect, unflappable; so very unlike his current state of mind.

 

“I have no idea what you mean,” Sherlock replied, his words curt and his tone, clipped.

 

“Oh, I’m quite sure that you know perfectly well what I mean,” Mycroft drawled. “He has changed.”

 

Sherlock snarled. “You think I don’t know that?” he snapped. “I suppose you want me to _thank_ you for that? After all, if it had not been for your damn meddling, he wouldn’t have turned out this way.”

 

Mycroft’s gaze remained cool, unperturbed. “If it had not been for me, my dear brother, John would be dead.”

 

Sherlock’s jaw clicked shut, his molars ground together and his fingers clenched as he rapidly began to decode the statement. Dead, dead in what way? His sniper? No, John’s sniper was inactive soon after his fall, so that wasn’t it. An outside force? No, not that either. All other dangers that tied in could be handled by himself or Mycroft —because despite what his languid sack of a brother claimed, John Watson was irrefutably a part of their lives. So no threat from other influences, meaning—

 

His eyes widened and he felt a cold chill run down his spine. “He wanted to—”

 

“Yes,” Mycroft replied, looking away. “I gave him a purpose, so you _should_ be thanking me.”

 

The Consulting Detective digested the information greedily, working it over and over in his mind. From those the loose-lipped words, a plethora of information, possibilities and scenarios opened up before him. John’s feelings were easiest to identify; hurt, self-contempt and guilt. Guilt was the prevailing emotion, guilt so strong and crushing that it quashed John’s will to live.

 

Aside from the suicidal urges, Sherlock could relate to that John’s feelings all too well. This realisation made him feel uneasy so he shook off the thought and pressed on, determined to unravel the cause of John’s transformation.

 

It was obvious that John blamed himself for Sherlock’s death and with his life lacking purpose, the spiral of depression that followed only urged those dark thoughts. How many nights did John wake up, screaming out Sherlock’s name? How much grief and pain did he go through? Death must’ve been so tempting, such a simple way to end it all. Then there was the disgust that accompanied those thoughts; did John call himself a coward for even entertaining such notions? Yes, he must’ve. John was a man of strong morals, he didn’t approve of taking the easy way out.

 

Having Mycroft appear one day at his doorstep with a shady job offer, Sherlock could envision the fury the elder Holmes had been subjected to. The amount of rejection and scorn that was thrown before eventually, John’s worn soul gave out and he agreed.

 

After that, Sherlock’s mind drew a blank. The speeding bullet of cognitive prowess had hit a dead end, a titanium wall that refused to yield to him. God damn it! Sherlock didn’t have enough data to work with, how soon did John’s personality warp? After the first kill? The ninth? When was he replaced with the empty husk of a man? Not enough information, theorising before he had the data would only lead to disaster. It was all well and good knowing the trigger of change, but didn’t tell him _how_ John changed! If he knew how, it would be so easy to just reverse the process and have his old John back. Wait, _his_ John?

 

Yes. His. Always had been his. Had.

 

In the time it had taken him to reach this conclusion, a total of fifteen seconds had passed. Slow, by Holmes’ standards.

 

“You are playing a dangerous game, Sherlock. Perhaps you should consider conceding defeat.”

 

Allowing his eyes to refocus, it took a second for Sherlock to register Mycroft’s words and the moment he did, indignant fury swept him. Concede defeat after learning so much? Never! While he had been on the verge of doing so before, now was a completely different matter and Mycroft’s ‘suggestion’ only spurred him on. No, he was not going to give up. John may have given up on him —he suppressed his urge to flinch, but he wasn’t going to give up on John. Loyal, patient wonderful John that cared, that cared so much for him before he was so brutally hurt by Sherlock’s actions. He was going to fix this.

 

“As rebellious as ever,” Mycroft said with a heavy sigh. “It will not be easy.”

 

“I enjoy a challenge,” Sherlock replied. He was met with a blank yet pointed stare.

 

Lacing his fingers together, Mycroft rested his chin above them and kept his gaze even. “And what will you do, if this doesn’t quite work out according to plan?”

 

“I’ll improvise,” Sherlock said with a dismissive wave of his hand. Failing was not a scenario, how dare Mycroft suggest otherwise.

 

A slow smile crept up onto Mycroft’s face, mocking amusement. “I see that your mind has been made up, I doubt that my words would sway you.”

 

“And it took you forty-five years to figure this out, mother would be ashamed.” Sherlock watched as the mirth in Mycroft’s eyes dimmed; ah, a small victory.

 

“I will arrange a ride back to Baker Street.”

 

“Thank God, I was wondering when this farce would end,” Sherlock said with a breath of relief. He swiftly rose to his feet and grabbed his coat that had been draped over the back of his armchair. Saying nothing as he walked towards the door, his wide impatient sides only reflected his eagerness to return home. His hand made contact with the doorknob when Mycroft’s voice chimed.

 

“Sherlock, do be careful.”

 

Sherlock threw open the door.

 

~*~

 

“I rather liked that mug.”

 

Sherlock paused as he stepped into the living room, startled to see John crouched down on the floor, picking up the ceramic pieces littered across the carpet. His expression was soft and thoughtful though slightly disapproving; the way he looked when he was stuck on a particularly hard Sudoku puzzle. For a moment, he looked like the old John and Sherlock felt his chest painfully constrict. It was hard to breathe and because of this, Sherlock found it difficult to formulate a response.

 

John’s face turned blank, Sherlock’s heart dropped to his stomach.

 

Unable to look at him, Sherlock walked past John and headed towards his chair not before pulling out the violin case stored underneath it. Stradivarius, oh how he’d missed it so. In the two weeks he’d been back, he had neglected it in favour of pandering over John, but no more. He needed to clear his thoughts and what better way than to play? John’s impassive gaze couldn’t hurt him if he had his eyes closed, right?

 

He lifted the chinrest to his jaw and began to play the moment the ceramic made contact with the kitchen bin. Drown it out, drown it all out and come up with a solution to this whole mess. If John had any complaints about the noise, Sherlock didn’t hear it.

 

~*~

 

Sherlock opened his eyes to see John on the floor, his thick thighs wrapped around the waist of an intruder as he wrenched his arms back at an unnatural angle. The mystery man was younger than John, but older than Sherlock; tanned in complexion and well-toned; he led an active lifestyle, it seemed and judging by the distribution of muscle mass, it involved conflict. Another assassin? Or simply an unfortunate burglar?

 

The mystery man screamed and cursed as a sickening pop resounded through the room. All the while, John’s face remained impassive and his breathing even; not even flinching at the intense pain he was inflicting upon the other.

 

John lifted his head, his dull stare piercing into Sherlock’s when he spoke. “Could you pass that?” he asked, jerking his head towards the knife a few inches beside Sherlock’s foot.

 

It was a small knife, its point sharp and its blade slim, a kard? Most definitely not one of John’s, John preferred blades he could easily store and bend; this knife met neither requirement. The assailant’s then. Unable to do much aside from blink dumbly, Sherlock lifted the knife and handed it to John, who promptly pressed the edge against the man’s throat.

 

“Ten seconds,” John warned.

 

Sherlock felt his blood run cold at the act of efficient cruelty.

 

He man only hissed and spat, refusing to yield to his sustained injuries and the knife to his throat. At the man’s obstinacy, John sighed and rolled his eyes. He lifted the knife from the man’s jugular and together, the attacker and Sherlock breathed a collected sigh of relief.

 

The point of the knife plunged into the man’s left thigh.

 

“McKinnsey!” he wailed.

 

With a curt nod, John forcefully withdrew the knife and slit the man’s throat.

 

Sherlock resisted the urge to vomit.

 

John groaned and stood up from the freshly bleeding corpse, patting down the victim’s clothes for something Sherlock couldn’t quite place. He had met face to face with murderers before but never had he felt fear as he did now. It wasn’t that he feared for his life, if John wanted to kill him, he would be dead by now. So why was he afraid? What was this indefinable terror that gripped his heart and rendered his mind useless? He hadn’t felt this way since Dartmoor and even then there was one main difference; he wasn’t drugged, not this time. 

 

“If you want more parts for experiments, speak up now before I get rid of him,” John said, his voice neutral when he finally found what he was searching for; a small earpiece and small radio, both of which were instantly crushed under his boot.

 

Sherlock weakly shook his head.

 

John merely shrugged. “It’s a pain when they find the flat,” he muttered. A dark look flashed across his face. The words that came under his muttered breath were inaudible and partly shielded by his blood soaked hand, but somehow, Sherlock was able to pick up a few odd words through a combination of lip reading and very careful listening.

 

“Have to... Mrs. Hudson... higher ups.” Realising that Sherlock was eavesdropping, John immediately stopped his murmuring and dropped his hand with an expression of irritation. “You should probably leave for a while.”

 

“What about you?” Sherlock found himself asking.

 

“Safe houses,” John shrugged. “I don’t care where you go, but I’d rather not clean up your body when I get back.”

 

“I’ll accompany you.” Sherlock blinked, taken aback by his own sudden declaration. Well, no point trying to take it back, he needed John to react and this would have to do.

 

John blinked, regarding him with an incredulous look. It soon faded and his lips twisted into something that resembled both a smirk and a sneer. “Ha ha, very funny,” he said, his tone acerbic. “Stay at Greg’s, he’d probably appreciate the company,” John said, writing off Sherlock’s declaration as a joke. Pivoting on his foot, he turned from Sherlock and patted down the corpse once more to lift any valuable supplies; two magazines and lighter.

 

“I’m serious,” Sherlock pushed.

 

John pinned him with an icy glare and Sherlock felt his lungs fail him. Hate, resentment, fury, the intensity of it all caught him off guard. There was an underlying emotion underneath it all, something that fuelled the rest —damn it! Why couldn’t he figure it out?

 

John snarled pushed himself from the floor. The conversation was over, or at least it seemed to be on John’s half; Sherlock, however, was undeterred. “I’ll go with you,” he repeated, loud enough for John to hear him from across the living room; he was beginning to pack.

 

“Fuck off,” John spat.

 

“No.” How could he? John was showing more feeling in these past minutes than he had in the last fortnight! While anger wasn’t the ideal emotion, at least it was something, Sherlock understood anger. “If you are in danger, then I want to be there to help.”

 

John’s reaction left him numb with dread. He threw his head back and laughed; a loud, hollow laugh that caused the room to drop several degrees. The laugh lasted for a few seconds, turning almost hysterical as the sound reverberated from the walls until finally, in an attempt to catch his breath, John wrapped his arm around his ribs. He didn’t seem to care that he had smeared it with blood.

 

“John...”

 

“Oh, you really have no fucking clue,” John cut off, his voice still high and breathless. His broken smile remained and he shook his head. “You’re unbelievable.”

 

It was a disjointed thought, completely arbitrary, but it was only now that Sherlock realised, that John hadn’t once called him by his name. Odd how that observation came now, when it was of no importance to the situation at hand. “Then give me ‘a fucking clue’,” Sherlock snapped. Pushing back the ache and confusion, he replaced it with irritation and rage, they were much easier to handle.

 

“I’d rather not,” came the swift reply. John checked his watch, frowning and hefting his bag onto his shoulder. He didn’t wait for Sherlock’s approval or reply, instead opting to push past him to head for the door.

 

Sherlock beat him to it, using his body to block the doorframe. He kept his gaze frigid and firm, refusing to yield to John.

 

Before he could blink, he was pinned to the wall; his arms locked behind his back and his face uncomfortably crushed against the mismatched wallpaper. He noted that aside from the unpleasant angle in which his arms were held and the too-tight pressure from where his ribs were crushed against the wall, he wasn’t in too much pain. The aim was to restrain, not damage. His arms were pushed forward and Sherlock let out a grunt of pain; alright, revise that. A little damage.

 

“I am not your toy. I’m not something you throw away and pick back up when you’re bored,” John snarled close to his ear.

 

Sherlock twisted his head and opened his mouth, ready to question what John had meant when suddenly, his arms were released. He took the opportunity to turn.

 

A moment of confusion. A sharp blow to the back of his head. His eyelids becoming heavy.

 

A choked cry leaked from his lips and Sherlock felt the edges of his world blur. His unresponsive body fell to the ground with a dull thud, the pain barely registered.

 

The last thing Sherlock remembered hearing was the sound of footsteps walking down the seventeen steps of 221B.

 

And then, nothing. 


End file.
